


after the swan

by florulentae



Series: five for slashing [3]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, And They Were Teammates, Character Study, Inspired by Poetry, Internalized Homophobia, Jeon Wonwoo-centric, M/M, Pining, Self-Discovery, Sexual Identity, Unresolved Sexual Tension, oh my god they were teammates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28926765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florulentae/pseuds/florulentae
Summary: Wonwoo has learned to be a fighter. He knows how to sharpen his body like a blade and carry himself with enough strength to topple over buildings, if he so wanted. Fighting has become something he’sgoodat, even if he still doesn’t know how to feel about that fact.Soonyoung is not a fight to be won.Wonwoo learns that in the first minute he meets him.
Relationships: Jeon Wonwoo/Kwon Soonyoung | Hoshi
Series: five for slashing [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658182
Comments: 9
Kudos: 52





	after the swan

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! some quick notes before reading:  
> -i am not super familiar with the shl!! this is just me waving my hand around and hoping it looks Okay. I chose frl as the team because one of my hockey pals loves the team and has made me fall in love with the sweden nt<3  
> -wrote half of this in a delirious haze at 6am so it's not the most coherent thing BUT it made me feel something so i decided to post it!  
> -title is from leda, after the swan by carl phillips. this poem reminded me of wonwoo for Reasons. physical by andrew mcmillan was something i also read while writing this
> 
> as usual, big thanks to emi for being my little beta angel and to juji and kai for the encouraging words!

_Perhaps,  
_ _in the exaggerated grace  
_ _of his weight  
_ _settling,_

 _the wings  
_ _raised, held in  
_ _strike-or-embrace  
_ _position,_

_I recognized_  
_something more_  
_than swan, I can't say._

.

The sound of his closed fist breaking bone is enough to pull him out of his body for a second. Enough to clear his vision of muted red as he is forcefully taken by the referee to sit in the penalty box for five minutes. 

Wonwoo sits, holding his hand gingerly, knuckles split wide-fucking-open and jaw set as he waits for the team medic to rush over and bandage him up. He closes his eyes and doesn’t think about the blood dripping onto his white jersey, doesn’t think about the tension headache that he’s had since waking up at ass o’clock for this particular game. Doesn’t think about the exhaustion that curls deep into his bones and makes a home out of them.

He hears the bang of hands against the glass, the delighted cheers, and smiles.

This is what he can do. 

Fight. Protect. Be a little bit of a villain, a little bit of a shit-stirrer. The fans _eat it up_ , and if Wonwoo is sometimes a little too injured for someone his age—well, that’s a problem to face in the next ten-to-twenty years.

Wonwoo Jeon—the one who would cry every single time he accidentally hurt his baby brother while playing, the one who was chided for being too soft, too much of a bore, holed up with books and video games when he wasn’t training and playing—has learned to coexist with Wonwoo the defenseman—the one who has now held his knuckles split open and bloodied enough times to know the ritual, broken enough bones and exhausted muscles, pressed ice to his ribs like someone offers flowers to a forgotten god for relief and respite from the rain.

Wonwoo’s story is not a happy one, in the way that many are not happy—his dream flunked because he couldn’t catch up to his peers, couldn’t grow into his skin fast enough, couldn’t spare money that he didn’t have on extra skating lessons.

His story is not happy in the ‘make-it-into-the-league-of-his-dreams’ way but Wonwoo makes the best of it, content to do what he can to keep his feet in skates and gliding on the cold ice. He’s far away enough from home in Ohio (which really just means far away from his parents, now) that the ache of not being good enough to make _their_ dreams come true can dull and scab over.

To be content, Wonwoo fights. The roar of the crowd as he steps into the ice again, rehearsed cocky smirk on his lips, feels like a salve. 

Feels like it’s enough.

* * *

Wonwoo has learned to be a fighter. He knows how to sharpen his body like a blade and carry himself with enough strength to topple over buildings, if he so wanted. Fighting has become something he’s _good_ at, even if he still doesn’t know how to feel about that fact.

Soonyoung is not a fight to be won. 

Wonwoo learns that in the first minute he meets him.

"I'm Soonyoung," says the man with the blonde hair, and Wonwoo chokes on a damn sob that rises from the pit of his stomach. He freezes in place and half out of his equipment. Something about the way Soonyoung holds himself, the familiarity of the vowels and consonants that make up his name, leaves Wonwoo breathless. “Everyone calls me Hoshi, though. Easier,” Soonyoung adds, eyes turned into crescent moons by the force of his smile and amusement clear in his voice. He’s heard his name mispronounced enough times for it to be less than a sting. 

Wonwoo is familiar with that feeling. He clings to his name like the last shred of who he was before hockey became his life and dream.

"I know— I'm, uh, Wonwoo." He’s aware that he sounds painfully awkward but no trade announcement on the team’s official account, no badly photoshopped promo picture of Kwon Soonyoung posted, could do justice to the man standing in front of him. "Welcome to the team," Wonwoo adds belatedly. He feels the heat rise to his cheeks. All he can here are all the places where his accent stilts, where his tongue becomes awkward and his mouth struggles to make the words sound the way he wants them. 

Soonyoung doesn’t seem to care about Wonwoo’s stilted Korean. His smile grows impossibly larger. “We’re going to have fun playing some good hockey!” he states. Coming from Soonyoung’s mouth, it sounds more like a universal law than a wish.

Wonwoo hums in agreement but finds himself frozen in place as the other man launches into a spiel about being happy to have someone that understands him, someone who can help him navigate through the strange English and even stranger Swedish. Soonyoung talks about how he couldn’t give a shit about learning enough English because he just wanted to play with his friends, and Japanese made more sense, really—talks about how he’s good enough at Russian after his short spiel in the KHL, and all the while Wonwoo is still half-naked, Soonyoung standing in front of him in a suit that’s slightly too big for him. 

Just like that, something essential in the composition of Wonwoo’s life shifts.

* * *

Even if every single one of his cells rebels against it, Wonwoo learns that learning Soonyoung is just as easy as breathing. Wonwoo isn't sure if it's because he lives with the guy now— _someone_ had said _something_ about how good it’d be for Soonyoung to have someone that was already settled in and could show him the ropes, someone who could understand him—or if Soonyoung is just that honest and open about everything.

It's unsettling.

Soonyoung's shampoo smells of oranges and his aftershave of something fresh, like pine trees in the early morning after it’s snowed all night. He owns way too many pieces of tiger printed clothing, doesn’t know how to cook to save his life, and stresses over how to work Wonwoo’s expensive coffee machine to the point of _sweating_.

Wonwoo learns the way Soonyoung laughs until he cries and just how often that happens, the way his brows scrunch in determination, and the way he bites his lips when he tries to learn to play the same video games Wonwoo plays in his free time. Wonwoo learns about the reverent way in which Soonyoung touches the spines of every single book stacked onto his bookshelves; how he latches onto the stories Wonwoo can muster up to tell about himself—and only after being prodded until he feels flayed open; the way he seems to tuck those stories into his heart in the same way he tucks himself under Wonwoo’s arm, the same way he leans into Wonwoo’s touches like a man starved. 

Wonwoo learns that _he_ is starved for something that never dared cross his mind.

* * *

When Wonwoo drags himself off his bed, it’s with plans of finding something sort-of healthy for a guilt-free snack. What happens instead is: he passes the bathroom, and the door is open, and Soonyoung is standing in front of the mirror, shirtless, applying cream to the bruises that litter his chest and back. Wonwoo is close enough to notice the puckered scar near his hip on the right side. The elastic band of Soonyoung’s shorts is bent in a haphazard way; he didn’t bother putting them on properly, and they ride up when he moves, halfway hiding that barely-there scar. Wonwoo can only stand to the side, frozen in place like a man witnessing a miracle, and stare.

When Soonyoung stretches back to reach a particularly nasty blue and black bruise, his muscles—taut and beautiful—shift with him, suggesting a power that makes Wonwoo’s mouth dry. Soonyoung’s thigh tense, two marble pillars, or the thighs of Apollo himself carved by an ancient sculptor. Wonwoo feels dizzy with something nameless that feels close enough to _want_ to make him try and snap out of his trance. 

It’s too late for that. 

“ _Wonwoo-yah_ ,” Soonyoung pronounces, breathless when he catches Wonwoo’s eyes in the mirror. A shy smile shines through in the moment Wonwoo expects a disgusted pucker of lips or a frown. “Can you help me? I can’t reach this one spot and it’s driving me _crazy,”_ he asks, turning around to face Wonwoo.

“I— Uh, I didn’t _mean_ to—” Wonwoo starts, voice squeaky as he holds his hands up in an attempt to placate Soonyoung, who is still fucking _smiling_ like this is _normal_ , like staring at your teammate’s half-naked body isn’t something that should be—would be— _punished_.

Soonyoung _giggles_ , a little bright thing that stops Wonwoo in his tracks. “I can help you with yours once we’re done with me,” he says, as though he’s offering to peel some tangerines for them to eat, not to touch Wonwoo without any _real_ reason. “I know your ribs look like hell after Tuesday’s game,” he adds, raising an eyebrow. 

Wonwoo grimaces. _You noticed?_ he wants to ask. The question sits at the tip of his tongue. _You looked?_ “My ribs do look gross,” he eventually concedes. 

“Come on,” replies Soonyoung, gesturing for Wonwoo’s shirt and moving to catch more of the balm in his fingers. “I’ve got you,” he adds. He seems delighted when Wonwoo hesitates for a moment before taking off his shirt and throwing it on the floor before walking into the bathroom. 

Wonwoo thinks about how his father chided him for getting into a fight with his classmates without reason (or, rather, for reasons that Wonwoo had refused to voice). He thinks of his mother’s heavy hand and harsh words as she cleaned the wound on his knee. He thinks of the hesitant way Jihoon touched Wonwoo’s lip moments after splitting it open with one precisely timed punch in their first proper hockey brawl. He thinks about Soonyoung’s smile in the mornings after they fall asleep on the couch and how expectant his eyes look now as he waits for Wonwoo to cross the distance that separates them.

He _doesn’t_ think about how Soonyoung doesn’t _need_ to apply the balm on his ribs, doesn’t think about how Wonwoo can do that for himself. He takes one step forward.

* * *

When Frölunda wins the Le Mat trophy after what feels like an eternity of grueling playoff games and not enough time on ice, Wonwoo experiences both joy he’s never known before and a despair he can’t put into words. 

It’s easier to focus on the joy, though; to bask in the cheap champagne and lift the silver hand in hand with Joel, with _Soonyoung_ ; to let Soonyoung crash against him on the ice and wrap his arms tight around Wonwoo; to scream at each other and laugh like they are the only men on earth, like they are on top of the world.

“I told you we’d have fun,” Soonyoung tells him once the celebration has died down and the deafening roar of the home-crowd has become nothing but a hum that Wonwoo engraves into his heart alongside his heartbeat. They are sitting in the back of a taxi, riding home after a night of bar-hopping, and Wonwoo’s skin still itches from the way Soonyoung looked when they caught each others’ eyes while they were dancing. Still, he can’t help but to smile.

“I’m glad you came,” Wonwoo replies, sincere. He gives the driver enough to cover the price of the ride plus a generous tip and steps out of the car into the cold night. Soonyoung’s footsteps fall into tandem with his. The walk to their apartment (when did Wonwoo stop thinking about it as _his_ apartment and start thinking about it as _their_ home? When did Wonwoo find the peace that comes with knowing that what is going to happen next is as inevitable as death, as tragedy, as _love_?) is quiet but charged with static electricity.

As soon as the door closes behind Wonwoo, Soonyoung is on him. His fingers are gentle on Wonwoo’s face, making his skin feel more like molten lava than imperfect flesh. Wonwoo blinks, slowly, and thinks Soonyoung would probably accuse him of cat behavior if he wasn’t busy looking at Wonwoo with the kind of reverence usually reserved for masterpieces—something like seeing the _Wanderer above the sea of fog_ in the flesh for the first time.

When Wonwoo inches closer, Soonyoung responds by effectively putting an end to the distance between them, pressing their bodies together as close as possible despite the layers in-between before laying the sweetest kiss Wonwoo has ever received on his lips—one that tastes sweeter than the victory, than kissing the cup for the first time—and the world stops. And everything that was once deemed unnatural becomes the only reason Wonwoo is alive, breathing. 

Soonyoung kisses like a man starved, Wonwoo marvels as he finds his hunger matched pace for pace. His hands shake as they grab hold of Soonyoung’s waist. When they separate for a breath of air before diving back in to fall into one another all over again, Wonwoo drowns, then draws the purest breath of air he has in his life.

* * *

Hours later, Soonyoung asks, "Have you ever held something so precious?" His eyes shine in dangerous ways, in ways that make Wonwoo's inside churn. They lay on Soonyoung’s bed with only the moonlight and a few street lamps as guide, but it’s enough for Wonwoo to notice Soonyoung’s eyes. He looks at Wonwoo, right into his eyes, like he could unthread every single line that holds up all the little and big things that make up Wonwoo’s soul, tangle them up, and then put them back together.

_Knuckles wide open._

Wonwoo thinks of the plastic trophies back in Ohio with his parents. The cheap medals. The way he once gazed upon the Stanley Cup, eight years old and speechless in reverence. 

He thinks of ice, and Sweden, and lifting the cup drunk half in glory and the other half in Soonyoung. He thinks of the way Soonyoung’s arms curled perfectly around his waist, the way he tucked his head in the crevice of Wonwoo’s neck and laughed, smelling of cheap champagne and sweat. "I don't think so," Wonwoo replies and, just because he can—and despite the way his stomach clenches with both nerves and giddyness—he leans forward just enough to press a featherlight kiss on Soonyoung’s lips.

"It suits you," Soonyoung says after a dazed pause, and he means it. His lips are curled up in the prettiest smile Wonwoo has ever seen, one that is meant only for his eyes, one that makes him feel like he’s walking on clouds. 

_The skin gives way to blood and muscle and bone._

"Thank you," he replies, feeling raw. Soonyoung hums noncommittally and drifts closer to Wonwoo's bare chest, lips a breath away from his skin.

_Bare._

_Open._

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, you can find me in [twitter](https://twitter.com/florulentae) and in my [cc](https://curiouscat.me/poetarum) ♡


End file.
